


Centripetal Force

by flyingsolo_flyingfree



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (But only temporarily), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Fix-It, M/M, Major Character Death(s), Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingsolo_flyingfree/pseuds/flyingsolo_flyingfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They would find each other. In every life, they would find each other. </p><p> </p><p>(Or: Merlin and Arthur through the centuries.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 _Being your slave what should I do but tend_  
_Upon the hours, and times of your desire?_  
_I have no precious time at all to spend;_  
_Nor services to do, till you require._  
_Nor dare I chide the world without end hour,_  
_Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,_  
_Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,_  
_When you have bid your servant once adieu;_  
_Nor dare I question with my jealous thought_  
_Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,_  
_But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought_  
_Save, where you are, how happy you make those._  
    _So true a fool is love, that in your will,_  
    _Though you do anything, he thinks no ill._

_-Sonnet LVII_   
_William Shakespeare, 1564-1616_

 

* * *

 

True to his legacy, Merlin became the most powerful sorcerer on Earth.

He came home to Camelot only once, for three reasons:

He came home to say a proper farewell to Gaius, who had Merlin’s favorite meal waiting for him.

He came home to tell Guinevere about his magic, even though by then, she already knew. But she took Merlin’s hand between both of her own and tearfully thanked Merlin for saving Camelot. Merlin tried to convince her that he’d done everything in his power to save Arthur, and that was when her tears spilled down her cheeks. She pulled Merlin in, held him tightly and whispered, “I know.” She pulled back and cupped Merlin’s cheek. “I know that you, of all people, would have done everything you possibly could.” She was sincere, and it broke Merlin’s heart, perhaps more than it would have if Gwen had been angry. Gwen’s trust in him was too much. He did not deserve it.

He came home to see Gawain buried. When Percival recounted to Merlin what Gawain’s final words had been, Merlin cried bitterly. Gawain may have died nobly, but he died thinking that they lost. Gawain was one of the bravest men Merlin had ever known. He wished more than anything that he could tell Gawain that his death was not in vain.

He accomplished the three tasks he’d returned for. He remained in Camelot for one week.

The only person who knew that Merlin was going to disappear was Gaius, and Gaius was the person who explained to everyone else that Merlin couldn’t stay. Merlin never knew how the news went over.

He hoped he would be forgiven. 

xXxXx

It took Merlin years to come to peace with the fact that he didn't fail, not really. But he could never fully understand how Arthur not being in Albion—Arthur not being King—was his destiny.

He couldn't burn Arthur's boat because he always hoped.

Merlin didn’t live in Camelot, but he returned whenever it was in trouble, whenever it was attacked by outside kingdoms or by power-hungry bandits. Gwen and Gaius always knew that it was him.  

As Merlin and Arthur knew she would be, Gwen was a wonderful queen; she was kind and just. With stipulations, she lifted the ban on sorcery. Gaius wished more than anything that Merlin could’ve been there to see it. But Merlin was there, disguised and invisible to anyone else. It felt like the most bittersweet victory he’d ever known. He knew that he was the reason Gwen lifted the ban. Merlin never sought credit for what he’d done, for what he continued to do, so it wasn’t gratification that he felt—it was relief. It was “ _finally_ , _”_ even though it came too late.

Better late than never.

xXxXx

When Merlin received word that Gaius was sick, he rushed back to Camelot. Gaius clutched Merlin’s hand.

“Do not try to revive me. I’m old, Merlin.”

Merlin tried to swallow the knot in the back of his throat. He knew that. He just wanted Gaius to be as comfortable as possible. He ground several pastes, one as a menthol that he spread across Gaius’ chest, to aid his breathing; another to ease some of the pain.

“You’ve learned so much, my boy,” Gaius said, pride shining in his eyes.

Merlin’s voice wasn’t steady, but he forced out the words, “I learned from the best.”

Gaius slipped away, and his death was peaceful, as painless as it could be. For that, at least, Merlin was thankful.

Merlin stayed by his bedside all night, and when dawn came, it was easy enough to find a maid whom he did not know. Gwen was good about hiring people from the poorer sections of Camelot in order to give them work. Merlin was just Merlin, he didn’t transform into the older version of himself because he knew she wouldn’t recognize him.

“Gaius is dead,” Merlin told her, simple and to the point, and she cast her eyes down in shock. She’d clearly known who Gaius was. Merlin was glad to know that his mentor had a presence in this castle right up until his death.

“Go tell the queen,” Merlin commanded, and she did not question his rank, she simply followed his order.

When Gwen asked who relayed the message about Gaius’ passing, the maid described him—dark hair, pale skin, lovely blue eyes. Gwen knew.

Merlin slipped out of Camelot through the tunnels below the castle.

xXxXx

Merlin continued to develop his powers, sometimes working with the Druids, sometimes studying ancient texts.

He wandered.

There were periods of time when he lived with Hunith, and she understood when he took to the road again. Hunith always understood Merlin.

He was by her bedside when she died, too. She told him, with her final breath, how proud she was of him.

Eventually, when Merlin was old and nearly dying himself, his powers got to a point that he could take a trip to the future; he could propel himself forward in time to whatever era he wanted. It would be a one-way trip, that much he knew. It would use nearly all of his strength, but he was old. He was now the version of himself that he’d used as a disguise so many decades ago. He didn’t have much time left, so it hardly felt like a sacrifice.

He chose an arbitrary year, far into the future: he chose 2012. He believed that by then, Arthur would have risen again—surely Albion would need Arthur centuries before. Albion couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble for very long.

Merlin wasn’t looking to meet Arthur again, even though he ached to see his friend, to lay his fists on Arthur for leaving him, and to hold Arthur tight, to make sure he never let go. He would give anything to see the light in Arthur’s eyes, to replace the memory of Arthur dying in his arms. But trying to see when Arthur would return required a level of magic that even Merlin did not possess.

Instead, Merlin was looking to see what legacy Arthur would leave behind. He was looking for signs that Arthur Pendragon had returned and lived the full and happy life that he always deserved. Merlin was looking for signs that Arthur had, once more, come to Earth and touched lives, the same way he’d done in the life where he’d been king.

As Merlin knew it would, sending himself into the future robbed him of nearly all his remaining strength.

In the short time that he had, he couldn’t wrap his mind around all of the new technology, the incredible leaps and bounds that humanity had made. Electricity, cars, planes, cell phones, the internet. He admitted that indoor plumbing was pretty great. He otherwise didn’t use any of it except for the time he took a single train ride, because he learned that riding horses everywhere was no longer an option.

Merlin despaired when he saw no signs of Arthur.

In Albion—which was now known as Great Britain, Merlin discovered—King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were simply a myth. Merlin searched to see if Arthur had returned under a different name—he scoured the history books for any sign of his king. He found none.

He found Avalon. He had some romantic notion that if Arthur felt the pull of Merlin’s magic, he would revive. It did not happen.  

When the remaining fragments of his strength began to wane, Merlin traveled to the Crystal Caves.

He had not returned since the battle that killed Arthur—the battle that saved Camelot. He couldn’t bear it. He hadn’t needed to, either. He’d assumed that a trip to the future would confirm what he needed to know: that Arthur would return.

Before he died, Merlin needed to know if it was the truth. He trusted Kilgharrah, but that dragon was always mystical and terribly roundabout in his words. He needed to know that Kilgharrah was being literal.

He needed to _know_.

Merlin was incredibly weak. He was old, and he was tired. Still, he was able to find the caves. He felt the power of it when he drew near, and he followed its call. When he entered, he felt his magic perk up and begin to hum through his blood.

He looked into the crystals, and suddenly, everything was clear. He saw snippets of the future, flashes of what would be.

The reason he never found Arthur in history books is because he was searching for a great king—he expected Arthur would have the same role that he did when he ruled Camelot. But Arthur’s role in the future was different than that. It was subtle; he was not a great ruler, he was an ordinary man.

But in the future, Arthur’s seemingly banal life would still touch the world. Perhaps not in the grand and ostentatious way of a king, but in the way that an average person still could. Arthur would never receive the accolades he deserved, but Merlin saw the lives that Arthur would save. He saw the amount of people Arthur’s kindness would touch.

And Merlin, too, would return. He didn’t see very much, but he knew that in each of Arthur’s lifetimes, he would know Arthur; their lives would always intersect.

Merlin died in the Crystal Caves, but he died happy. He died filled with hope, hope that he’d lost so many years ago.

Arthur would return. Arthur would be back. Merlin would be by his side once more, where he belonged.

That was all that mattered.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for violence in this chapter**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I should take this time to specify: The tags say that the major character deaths are temporary. Up until the final chapter, that's not really true. But the last chapter will fix everything, I swear.
> 
> Writing in Elizabethan English is a major thorn in my side, so I decided not to. That said, there are words from that era scattered throughout the text. There are "translations" in the notes at the end.

 

* * *

 

 _And now good-morrow to our waking souls,_  
_Which watch not one another out of fear;_  
_For love all love of other sights controls,_  
_and makes one little room an everywhere._

 _My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears_  
_And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;_  
_Where can we find two better hemispheres_  
_Without sharp north, without declining west?_  
_Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally;_  
_If our two loves be one, or thou and I_  
_Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die._

_-The Good-Morrow  
John Donne, 1572-1631_

 

 

* * *

 

**London, 1602**

“Again,” William cried, and the troupe groaned in unison. The show was going up tomorrow for Candlemas* night, but heavens, this amount of rehearsal was excessive.

No matter, Merlin reasoned. This was what he’d decided to do with his life. He couldn’t imagine anything else. He’d been part of the King’s Men* since he was a boy; they’d decided when he was young that he had feminine features and that he would be perfect for female roles. He played young serving boys in _Richard II_ and _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , but by the time they got to _Much Ado About Nothing_ and _As You Like It_ , he was cast as women. His work was highly regarded by the troupe. There would always be people who mocked him, who taunted him and spat at him for portraying a _woman_ , of all things, but Merlin paid them no mind. He didn’t see it as an insult. And until women could act on stage, it was up to men to do it. Merlin worked incredibly hard to make his portrayal as accurate as he could, rather than a farce. Women certainly deserved that much.

Now, he was Viola in _Twelfth Night, Or What You Will_. It was a complex role because not only was he playing a woman, he was playing a woman who was playing a man. He could not just be an ordinary man when he was playing Viola’s version of Cesario—he had to play a man through a woman’s eyes.

William banged his fist against the stage. “I said again!”

So they went again.

Malvolio exclaimed, “Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be returned.” He tossed the ring, and Merlin tracked it as it rolled across the stage. “If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.”

“Storm off,” William commanded from where he was standing on the ground beside the stage. The actor who played Malvolio obeyed, turning on his heel and exiting into the wings.

Merlin had to search for a minute before he could find the ring—he’d watched where it had fallen, but then he’d taken his eyes off it when Malvolio exited. He began his soliloquy in the meantime, knowing he’d find it before his lines ended. “I left no ring with her,” he said, pitching his voice in the octave that he reserved for his female roles. “What means this lady?”

It was about a third of the way through that he found the ring, stooping to pick it up as a woman would—after all, Merlin reasoned, Viola was alone in this particular moment and she could be herself.

“What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!” Merlin lamented, and he certainly knew that feeling. “O time, thou must untangle this, not I; it is too hard a knot for me to untie.”

Merlin stood staring at the ring until William eventually called that the scene was finally what he wanted—he’d made subtle changes to that soliloquy at least a dozen times, forcing Merlin to relearn it over and over.

Relieved to be done, they broke for the night and went to a nearby tavern. In some ways, the troupe spent far too much time together, but it was only in this sort of environment that they were loose; they weren’t playing any characters, they were themselves. It was a refreshing change.

That evening at the pub, they all drank a fair amount of mead. The lighting was dim, but apparently it wasn’t dim enough to conceal that Merlin hadn’t properly washed off all of his rouge. He thought he’d gotten most of it, but there was enough left that his cheeks were still red, traces of it left over.

A bulky fellow stalked over and the stool creaked beneath his weight as he sat down beside Merlin.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in this part of town?”

Merlin pointedly ignored him. He was used to this sort of thing.

That is, until the man reached forward and dragged his fingers across Merlin’s cheekbone, and that’s when he realized why he was the target of this unwanted attention: his stained cheeks. Merlin realized his error, and cursed inwardly. He should know better by now.

He glanced around the bar, but the troupe was scattered; some of the men were trying their hand at seduction, but being an actor was low-brow, even if going to the theater in general was considered to be an upper-class pastime. Their attempts were valiant, if ineffective.

The man stood and moved into Merlin’s space some more, and he was at least twice Merlin's width; he was certainly much taller.

“I think you belong next door, don’t you, wench?” the man smirked, and Merlin bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Next door was a stew*.

He reached for his sword. He didn’t want to resort to using it, but sometimes these sorts of men would try to force themselves on men like Merlin—the ones considered effeminate enough to play women.

The man wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s slender wrist, and Merlin bristled. They weren’t speaking loudly enough to cause a commotion, because he’s certain that if they had, the rest of the King’s Men would’ve come over to back him up.

Just as Merlin was going to draw his sword, someone came to his aid.

“Leave him alone,” an unfamiliar voice commanded from behind the scoundrel.

The man whirled around, tugging Merlin with him and Merlin held his tongue to keep from crying out—the man was gripping his wrist too tightly, and in turning, he bent it at an unnatural angle.

The thug barked a laugh. “You do not have the strength to try to fight me, boy,” he spat.

Merlin recognized the blond boy standing before him—he was one of the potboys* of this tavern.

To his surprise, the boy just smiled, far too confident for someone of his stature. Just as Merlin’s antagonist was reaching for his sword, the potboy leapt forward, successfully landing a fist to the man’s face. He followed it up by thrusting the heel of his palm up into the man’s nose, and Merlin heard the sickening crunch of cartilage as it broke. He doubled over, releasing Merlin's wrist as blood dripped from between his fingers, tracking down his knuckles.

The man was enraged, and in Merlin’s experience, wounded pride can ignite the worst fights. The burly man was hunched over and Arthur drew his sword, pressing it against the man’s throat.

“Get out of my bar, heathen,” he ordered, low and menacing. Merlin watched anxiously as the man’s hand drifted down to his own sword, and for a moment it seemed like there was going to be a full duel. But he eventually turned and stalked out, a few spilt drops of blood tracking between the table and the door.

The blond boy sheathed his sword, and Merlin felt himself staring, but he didn’t really care.

The boy finally turned his gaze on Merlin. He slapped Merlin’s shoulder amicably.

“Next time, I would advise that you wash your cheeks,” he joked, and Merlin let out his breath.

“I had him,” Merlin replied, not quite ready to admit that the boy had really helped him out. The boy snorted.

“Of course.” He quirked his brow. “You’re part of the troupe?”

Merlin nodded. The potboy began to clear off the tables, wiping up spilt mead and the leftover trail of blood.

“My name is Arthur,” he said over his shoulder, looking back at Merlin.

Merlin had to clear his throat. “I’m Merlin.”  

“Well, Merlin.” Arthur stepped forward, tucking his rag into his belt. “I shall be present for the performance of _Twelfth Night_ tomorrow evening.”

Merlin cocked his head, blinked a few times. Arthur gave him a small playful shove and continued, “Might I come backstage to greet you, after?”

Merlin stammered, “Yes. Of course.”

Arthur gave Merlin a lopsided smile. “It was good to meet you, Merlin. I look forward to seeing you in full costume.” He winked.

If Merlin’s legs were a little shaky coming out of the bar, no one needed to know.

 

xXxXx

 

Opening night, there were only a dozen or so vegetables thrown at them. The groundlings were raucous, as per usual, but there were some wolf whistles too, some signs that they were, in fact, doing well. Some of the orange girls* hooted when Merlin came out. The applause at the end was thunderous enough that Merlin was pretty sure there would be a second performance.

Merlin didn’t change out of his costume right away; sometimes men and women alike would wander backstage to try to get a glimpse of the male actors in women’s costumes, with all their makeup still on. But when Arthur was the first to enter, Merlin was thankful that his cheeks were already artificially stained red.

He stood to walk over to Arthur and flicked his shoes off along the way. Thankfully, Viola was only dressed as a woman her first and final appearance. Merlin had no clue how women wore shoes like these all the time. They  _hurt_.

“You’re… prompt."

Arthur chuckled. “Didn’t think I’d be here so soon?”

Merlin was a bit tongue-tied, but Arthur didn’t seem particularly put off by Merlin’s appearance. He seemed captivated, yet it was different from the people who came backstage to poke and prod Merlin like a scientific specimen, asking him over and over to speak in his woman voice so they could giggle. Arthur’s attention wasn’t condescending.

“May I?” he asked, stepping forward. Merlin didn’t know what Arthur wanted to do, but he probably wasn’t averse to any of it, so he just nodded. Arthur ran his hand along Merlin’s sleeve, inspecting the stitching, and Merlin realized Arthur was examining his dress. He tugged a bit at the seam of the shoulder, then smoothed his hand down the skirt. He straightened, a bit awed.

“This is fine craftsmanship.”

At Merlin’s puzzled expression, Arthur clarified, “My mother is a seamstress.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, suddenly understanding Arthur’s fascination with his costume. He desperately needed to scratch his cheek, and really, the performance was over, so if he smeared his makeup, it wasn’t a big deal.

He moved to do so but Arthur reached forward to lay his hand gently on Merlin’s elbow. “You—” Arthur began, then flushed a little. “You look good in that,” he finished, and Merlin smiled in spite of himself. Arthur wasn’t being rude or snide. He meant it. It was always a little off-putting when people seemed to genuinely like the sight of Merlin in costume, but he’d already met Arthur the night before. Arthur seemed to like him just fine in his normal attire as well. Warmth spread through Merlin’s chest as he thought, _huh. I think I’ve made a friend._ It was bit of a foreign concept, because the King’s Men were Merlin’s only friends for as long as he could remember. 

It was further solidified in Merlin’s mind when Arthur said, “Come by the tavern after your show tomorrow—since, I suspect, there will be a show tomorrow. You'll drink free of charge. Your performance was excellent.”

Merlin grinned. “Free drinks? I’ll be there.”

 

xXxXx

 

It turned into a routine.

He went to visit Arthur at the pub on every Wednesday and Saturday. Arthur didn't allow Merlin to pay for his drinks. He introduced Merlin to his fellow potboys and the man who was in charge of the tavern. The man who ran the place didn’t seem overly fond of Merlin, but apparently Arthur had been there the longest out of all the workers, so he put up with him for Arthur’s sake.

When the bar was crowded, Merlin would sit at a table by himself, watching Arthur sweep tables clean and refill patrons’ tankards*. He was good at his work, quick on his feet. He was efficient and swift. He was charming to both the men and the women, generous with his smiles. Merlin generally tried to work on his lines while Arthur was busy; he’d sip at the mead that Arthur slid across the table to him and try to study the scrolls in his hands. A lot of times, though, he just ended up watching Arthur. He was enchanting; everyone in the pub was drawn to Arthur. He just had that sort of aura about him.

After the pub closed and everyone staggered out drunk and merry, Merlin would stay and help Arthur clean up. He’d haul in casks from the back and Arthur would fit them with tundishes*. Admittedly, Merlin was no help there, so he cleaned the tables and leftover steins to make himself useful.

While they worked, they got to know each other.

Merlin learned about Arthur’s mother, how she ran a business from her house. She sewed her own dresses, and once she’d been in the business long enough, she saved her money and purchased fine silks. She began to make dresses for the upper classes, dresses that were long and regal and embellished. Still, with the amount of time it took her to make the dresses in comparison to the few customers she had to buy them, their family didn’t have a lot of extra money. It’s why Arthur worked rather than going to school. He didn’t seem to mind.

He told Merlin about his sister, how her beauty was beyond compare and how she was swept away by a wealthy man. With their marriage, she was inducted into the upper class. It was rare for that to happen, but apparently, Morgana’s beauty was enough to win his heart. She sent as much money home as she could, but she didn’t want to take too much. While her husband was sympathetic to the Pendragons’ financial situation, he didn’t want all of his money going to their cause. Morgana didn’t want to give him reason to think that she married him for the wrong reasons.

Merlin opened up, too, but he felt like he didn’t have as much to say. His mother was his only kin, no siblings and no father. They were in the lower class, but they made enough to get by. Merlin told Arthur how he began acting from a young age; Hunith encouraged him every step of the way. “She’s always been supportive,” Merlin said, twisting the rag between his hands, and when he looked up, Arthur was giving him a fond smile.

“For good reason,” he told Merlin. “You’re a gifted player*, Merlin.”

Merlin whipped Arthur’s shoulder with the rag, and Arthur beamed and easily dodged the sting of Merlin's second attempted blow.

 

xXxXx

 

Arthur attended Merlin’s performances as frequently as he could. He was a groundling, and Merlin knew how tough that was—it was a long time to be standing—but Arthur didn’t seem to mind. He’d always shush others around him if they became too rowdy.

Arthur’s face and voice always stood out to Merlin, even when Merlin was ensconced in his performance. He couldn’t break character, but every time he heard Arthur telling the others to pipe down, he had to concentrate hard on remembering his lines.

 

xXxXx

 

Merlin began to spend more than two nights a week at Arthur’s tavern. His favorite thing in the world was to make Arthur laugh.

 

xXxXx

 

One night, Merlin caught a glimpse of a swatch of fabric in the closet, hidden behind piece of wood. It was fairly plain—brown with small flowers, nothing elaborate, but it was beautiful nonetheless. Part of him wanted to snoop, but he decided it would be better to just ask forthright. He didn’t try to take the fabric out to show Arthur, because his hands were inky from his scrolls and sticky from dried ale.

“Arthur?” He emerged from the back room, and Arthur grunted acknowledgement. It had been a long day with rambunctious patrons, and he was tired. They both were.

Merlin treaded carefully. “I saw some fabric in the back.” That got Arthur’s attention, his head snapping up to look at Merlin, who pushed onward. “It's quite beautiful. Did you pick it up for your mother?”

Arthur’s cheeks turned a bit pink in the candlelight, which by that point was practically naught—the stubs were flickering out, the wax pooled around the remainder of the candle.

Seeing Arthur embarrassed, Merlin rushed to correct whatever blunder he’d just made.

“You don’t have to tell me! I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s all right.” Arthur wiped his brow with his forearm, stepping around a table to begin putting the stools up. Merlin automatically moved to help.

“It’s for me,” Arthur said after a minute, his voice low.

Merlin, a man who spent much of his time in women’s clothing, was not remotely fazed. He didn’t want to say anything that may further humiliate his friend, but he had to extend the offer.

“You know, if you ever wanted to try on any of my costumes, all you have to do is ask.”

Arthur cocked his head, flummoxed, before understanding dawned on his face. In spite of Arthur’s fatigue, he barked a laugh. Merlin was the one who was confused now, but regardless, it was good to see some of Arthur's weariness disappear in the shake of his shoulders, in the way he threw his head back, even if it was only for a moment. Arthur's laughter turned into a genuine smile, appreciative.

“Thank you, Merlin. You’re too kind. Maybe I will take you up on that sometime.” He smirked, and Merlin rolled his eyes.

“If that wasn’t what you meant, then what is the fabric for?” Merlin knew he was pushing it, but he wanted to think that he and Arthur were close enough to share information like this with each other.

Arthur put the last stool on the table and leaned on its upturned legs. “I can’t talk about it just yet,” he said slowly, and Merlin wanted to jump in again to reiterate that there was no pressure to talk about it, period, but Arthur finished, “I will tell you when I can. It’s…” He hesitated. “It’s a work in progress. It’s not a big deal.”

Merlin tugged on his earlobe, trying to imagine what Arthur could possibly be doing. The truth was, Merlin was just glad Arthur didn’t lie to him. He easily could have told Merlin that he was just picking something up for his mother.

As they gathered their belongings to depart for the evening—Merlin with his scrolls in hand, Arthur with his fabric carefully pocketed, both donning their swords—Merlin reflected on how effortless this friendship was, how quickly and easily they'd fallen into it. He glanced over at Arthur, whose face was illuminated only by a few streetlights and a half moon, and Arthur turned to meet Merlin's gaze.

They grinned at nothing in particular, and Merlin saw Arthur’s smile behind his eyelids when he drifted off to sleep.

 

xXxXx

 

Two months later, Merlin found out what Arthur's secret project was, and it was completely by accident.

It was dusk, the sky was growing darker by the minute; winter was nearly upon them. Merlin was just getting out of rehearsal, and he shivered, tugging his coat tighter around his body. He was feeling drained from practice; they were doing _Hamlet_ , and unlike _Twelfth Night_ , it was a dark show. He was Ophelia. It was grueling, having to go completely mad in the final acts—making the transition from being chipper and in love to being out of his mind, it stretched him to his limits as an actor. He wouldn’t trade it for anything, but it took a toll on him.

He was trudging along, kicking a stone as he walked, when heard a familiar voice. He was used to listening for that voice in large crowds, and even if it was hushed now, Merlin would know it anywhere. Arthur’s voice was moving away from him, and Merlin ducked into the shadows, picking up his pace to follow the sound.

Arthur stepped around a corner, and Merlin stayed with his back pressed to one side of the wall, peering around to see. It was a dark alleyway; Merlin had witnessed a wide variety of sexual acts taking place here, but (thankfully) that wasn’t what was happening. Arthur was squatting down, eye level with two little girls, the oldest being no more than eight years old. Merlin’s mouth fell open in surprise as Arthur produced two dresses from his satchel.

He held the dresses up to try to gauge if they were the right size; there was no way to ensure they would fit until the girls tried them on, but they certainly seemed like a perfect match. The garments were plain, as garments for the lower class had to be: they were the made from the same patterned fabric Merlin had seen in the back of the tavern, and they were reinforced at the sleeves and elbows.

The girls’ faces lit up, clutching the dresses to their bodies. Even with the shadows, Merlin could see the dirt caked under their nails and smeared across their cheeks. Merlin could see that the dresses they were currently wearing were threadbare and much too small for them.

Arthur whispered to them, and Merlin could only pick out a few words, but he heard something along the lines of, “Tell your mother that I gave them to you,” and “I’m so glad that you like them.” When one of the girls produced a coin from her belt, Arthur closed her fingers around it and shoved it back toward her. “It’s no trouble at all.”

The girl looked relieved as she pocketed the coin again, and she lurched forward to wrap her arms around Arthur’s neck; the younger girl joined, hugging Arthur’s waist. Arthur looked surprised, but he recovered quickly and held them close.

When they let go, he kissed both of their foreheads and told them to run home before it got too cold. They thanked him again, and they scampered off in the opposite direction.

Merlin considered fleeing, guarding Arthur’s secret without saying a word, but in the end, he knew the best course of action was to admit that he witnessed what just took place. He would feel guilty keeping it to himself, pretending he didn’t know.

Arthur took a moment to pull himself together after he watched the girls leave, and that’s when Merlin stepped into sight.

Arthur heard his footsteps, turned, and when he caught sight of Merlin he froze in place. Merlin approached slowly, his hands up in a defensive gesture.

“I didn’t follow you, I swear. I heard your voice, and I just…” It sounded bad no matter what, he realized, because he still hid and watched Arthur.

But Arthur didn’t appear to be livid, Merlin noted, and that was a good sign. Arthur regained control of his limbs and took several steps forward until they were face to face. He appeared to be… abashed? Which, really, was just absurd.

Merlin was quiet. “That’s what you’ve been doing with the fabric.”

Arthur hesitated. Eventually, he admitted, “Yes. I’ve watched mother for a long time. I’m not great at it, not yet.”

“Have you been using your wages to buy to material?”

“No, not—” Arthur looked down, digging the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “I haven’t been using all of it. I have to worry about my mother, I have to make sure we have food and firewood. I still help pay for her fabrics. I’ve just begun working more, and I’ve put aside just a little money each week. I’ve been saving for a while now.”

Merlin was awestruck; he didn’t know what to say. Arthur fidgeted.

“It’s just, the winter is coming.” Arthur apparently still felt the need to explain himself, and no, he had it all wrong, Merlin’s silence didn’t equate to judgment, but he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “These people don’t have enough to pay for new clothes. Their children get fall ill, and sometimes…” He trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut. “Morgana nearly died, when we were young kids. Everyone was shocked when she recovered. But I still see her frozen beneath the blankets, her fingers and lips blue. I don’t want that to happen to anyone else.” Arthur looked at Merlin imploringly, and Merlin, Merlin was brimming with pride.

Merlin stepped in close, close enough to feel Arthur’s breath on his face. He managed to keep his hands at his sides, but it was a near thing.

“You’re incredible. You’re... Arthur, I don’t have words.”

Arthur's apprehensive expression was replaced by gratitude, and Merlin was still befuddled as to why Arthur worried that Merlin would think badly of him.

“I’m not, I’m really not,” Arthur protested under his breath, and Merlin knew he meant it, he really thought what he was doing wasn’t anything at all.

“But you are. Look,” Merlin said, and there was a small smile on Arthur’s face, relief and something else replacing the panic from a moment ago. “If you ever need help, let me know. Anything, anything at all. All right?”

Arthur’s smile spread, beaming wide at Merlin, and he stepped forward to circle his fingers around Merlin’s wrist, where his coat was long, sleeves hanging past his wrists, where his hands were tucked inside in fists to keep warm. He could feel the heat of Arthur’s hand through the fabric.

“You’re a good friend, Merlin,” Arthur murmured, and Merlin couldn’t help the answering grin on his own face.

 

xXxXx 

 

The next time a costume tore and the seamstress came in to do a rushed mending job backstage, Merlin took her aside. Unlike Arthur’s mother, this woman was fairly well off. She was one of the few who had business with the upper class.

“What’s this about? Do any of your dresses need to be tended to?”

Merlin replied, “No, actually. I wanted to know if you have any extra fabric.”

Her hands slowed, and she cocked her head at Merlin. “What for?”

Merlin had rehearsed this answer. “My friend’s mother is a seamstress too, but she’s running low on materials. I understand fabric is expensive, but she only needs fabric for the lower class—nothing fancy at all.” Merlin did his best to plead with his eyes, which he’s been told he’s good at. Thankfully, this woman had known Merlin since he was a young lad, and she had a bit of a soft spot for him.

“I think I can dig something up for you, my dear,” she said after a moment’s pause, and Merlin clasped her hand between his own.

“I can pay you, a few week’s wages, or—”

She cut him off with a hearty laugh. “Don’t dream of it. I have some that’s sitting around, that I cannot use for costumes and that I no longer use for dresses. It’s been sitting bunched up in a corner for years now.”

Merlin grabbed her face and planted a kiss on each cheek.

 

xXxXx

 

She dropped the material off for Merlin the following week. When Arthur came to see the opening performance of _Hamlet_ , he came backstage as usual. Merlin had it all folded in a corner, and, careful not to let the fabric touch his face (lest his makeup rub off and stain it), he carried it over and shoved it into Arthur’s arms. Arthur stared at it, and then at him.

“What’s this?”

Merlin gave a one-shoulder shrug (which was about as much as he could manage in this dress—it was tight, he had _no_ idea how women wore these all the time). “I knew someone. She wasn’t using it.”

Arthur just gaped. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Merlin insisted, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's, squeezing at the leather that covered Arthur's hands—his generous hands that did wonderful things for so many deserving people.

Arthur looked at Merlin like he set the universe in motion. “I don’t know what to say.”

Merlin gave him a crooked smile. “Then don’t. I just want to see those dresses when they’re done.”

 

xXxXx

 

Arthur sewed a dozen more of them, and he allowed Merlin to come with him for their delivery. This time, he made dresses for both women and children, and he began to sew thick tunics for the boys.

“I don’t know how to do trousers,” he mumbled apologetically to the little boy in front of him, who was clutching his new tunic to his chest.

“Thank you,” the child exclaimed, clearly ignoring Arthur’s grumbling. Arthur was staring at the trousers the boy was currently wearing, which were riddled with holes, and he was clearly berating himself for his lack of skill. The young boy ran forward and nearly knocked Arthur over as he barreled into his legs.

“Thank you,” he whispered again, and Merlin swallowed hard.

On their walk home, Merlin shook his head at Arthur, disbelieving. Arthur caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Do tell,” he prompted, and Merlin took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You do so much good, Arthur. You help these families more than you know, yet you still berate yourself for your supposed shortcomings.”

Arthur walked along without a word. Minutes passed before he muttered, “I wish I could do more.”

Merlin stopped, grabbed Arthur’s shoulder. “You do enough. I promise, you do enough.”

Arthur studied Merlin, searching his face for something. When he gave a curt nod, Merlin had a feeling Arthur still wasn’t fully convinced, but it seemed like something inside him had given way. Merlin let go after giving one more squeeze to Arthur’s shoulder, and they continued walking.

“Who knows?” Merlin nudged Arthur with his elbow. “You’re a fast learner. I bet you’ll quickly learn to make trousers, too.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Arthur huffed, “says the _player_.”

Merlin chuckled, and Arthur was still looking at him funny, but Merlin didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.

 

xXxXx

 

Merlin never got to see the trousers Arthur made.

 

 

 

The King’s Men went to the pub together after rehearsal got out, and this time, they stuck together, all gathered around one big table. Arthur came in late, waving to Merlin as he rushed past. Merlin understood—Arthur was constantly working, between sewing and picking up extra hours for his mother, and he was frazzled.

He’d already bought his ale, and he watched with an amused grin as Arthur filled a stein for him and started towards his table, then stopped short when he saw Merlin’s fingers wrapped around his cup.

He approached the King’s Men nonetheless, holding out the tankard.

“Whoever wants this, it’s on the house.”

The men clambered over each other for the free ale, spilling some on Merlin in the process. Arthur raised his brow at Merlin, who was seated directly below where Arthur was standing.

“These are the men you associate yourself with.”

Merlin beamed up at him. “Yeah, shows what awful taste I have in friendships,” he said, coy, and Arthur made a face at him, grabbed one of the empty steins to clear off the table and tipped it upside down over Merlin’s head so that a few stray drops of ale landed in Merlin’s hair.

He shoved Arthur away, smiling as he watched his friend retreat.

He immersed himself in the stories the King’s Men were exchanging—some of them were gossip about who was sleeping with whom, some about performances gone disastrously wrong, and one of the more morally-grounded men in the troupe was talking about his infant child, how beautiful her fingers and toes were. Everyone mocked him mercilessly, but they were in high spirits.

Merlin was so engrossed that he didn’t check up on Arthur for a while—something that, at this point, was just a habit. In this pub, he had an awareness of Arthur, wherever he may be; Arthur seemed to be the same way about Merlin, the way he tended to make his rounds in such a way that he could always see Merlin’s table.

Merlin glanced over his shoulder, expecting to find Arthur at the bar, but he wasn’t there. Come to think of it, Merlin hadn’t seen him walking around the pub for at least ten minutes now.

He stood, eyes flitting through the pub to make sure he wasn't just being oblivious, that Arthur wasn't cozying up to one of the patrons, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Something wrong?” one of the men asked, and Merlin barely looked down as he responded, “If you can’t find me within five minutes, come looking for me.”

Another man said, “Your blond potboy?” Merlin nodded wordlessly.

“Something’s not right,” he murmured. He could feel it in his gut.

“He may just be out back with a wench. Or a lad,” the man at Merlin’s right pointed out.

But Merlin’s internal organs were tying themselves in knots, something was _wrong_ , and the man next to him sighed. “Go get him. Call if you need backup. If you walk in on something you didn’t want to see, it is no one’s fault but your own.”

The other men laughed heartily, but Merlin just nodded, his hand on his sword as he approached the bar.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asked the other potboy, who glanced around the pub, as though just realizing that Arthur had been missing for a while.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

Just then, Merlin heard a shout coming from the back alleyway, the area where the extra casks were stored. He didn’t hesitate for a moment, he drew his sword and burst through the door.

He found Arthur on his back on the ground, with a man kneeling on his chest as another raided his pockets. Arthur had the beginnings of a black eye and a split lip, and the man had his forearm across Arthur's throat, pressing down. Merlin could tell Arthur couldn't draw a full breath. He knew Arthur had fought the two of them for as long as he could, and he probably did better than most people would've, seeing as both of the men were bleeding from various cuts and scrapes on their faces. But they were both bigger than him, all brute strength, and Merlin spotted Arthur's sword far away, where it had, no doubt, been thrown. The man who was robbing Arthur had moved on to his boots, where he found several coins, and he held the coins up to his friend, delighted to discover more money. The man with his knees on Arthur's chest crooned, “You’re a pretty lad. Been watchin’ you for a while now. You and your pretty dark-haired friend. The two of you make quite a pair.”

Merlin’s blood boiled, seeing the way the light was leaving Arthur’s eyes, the struggle going out of him. He heard Arthur rasp, “Just promise me you won’t touch him,” and Merlin’s stomach turned over on itself. It was all he could take.

“Let go of him!” he screamed as he lunged, and his sword dug into the man’s bicep, cutting deep. The man pushed himself off Arthur's chest and stepped away, blood flowing freely down his arm as he yelped in pain.

“Merlin, no!” Arthur cried, hoarse from the man’s arm against his windpipe, and he struggled to his feet. He tried to reach for his sword, but by then, the man’s friend had sprung into action and he punched Arthur square in the stomach, effectively knocking the wind out of Arthur and sending him staggering back. Merlin yelled, calling for his friends inside, but he realized they probably wouldn't be able to hear them from out back, not with the din of the pub. Arthur was still trying to get his breath back, and his sword was nowhere to be found. Merlin was up against two men with swords—two _furious_ men with swords.

As they danced around each other, blades clanking together, it seemed to unfold in slow motion. Merlin could only think that he was enormously grateful the men’s attention was focused on him now instead of Arthur.

The man’s friend darted forward with his sword but Merlin parried the blow, then managed to swipe at his leg. The friend went down, clutching his thigh.

Just then, Merlin heard Arthur call, “Behind you!”

He didn’t have time to turn. He didn’t have time to react at all before he felt searing pain through his torso, and when he looked down, he saw the tip of a sword protruding from his stomach.

He felt the man’s foot against his back as he tugged his sword from Merlin’s body with a sickening squelch.

His vision blurred; the pain was like nothing he'd ever known. As he collapsed, he clutched at his stomach, at the blood that gushed from his body. It was in vain, he knew, but he tried anyway.

He heard Arthur’s bloodcurdling cry, and as he struggled to keep his eyes open, he felt Arthur take his sword from his limp hand. In two clean strikes, Arthur ran his sword through both men’s bodies. Merlin didn’t see it, couldn’t move his head enough, but he felt the ground tremble as the men went down, a puddle of red accumulating beneath them.

Arthur fell to his knees beside Merlin, grabbing him from beneath his armpits, propping him so that his back was against the wall and he was sitting up. It was then—minutes too late—that a few men from Merlin’s troupe rushed out, swords drawn. Merlin saw them stop in their tracks, taking in the scene before them; he could see their horror as they realized what happened, and Arthur’s face was lined with panic.

“Go get help! Go fetch someone!”

The men stood frozen, mouths open, and Arthur screamed, “Go! Now!”

The men glanced at Merlin again, and Merlin knew what they were thinking: there was no one who could help him. The man’s sword had run clean through his body. It wasn’t a surface wound. Merlin had minutes at most.

But the men looked at Arthur with something like pity, and then at Merlin. One of them muttered, “Sorry, Merlin. We’re so sorry.” They had tears in their eyes as they pivoted and hurried off to follow Arthur’s futile instructions.

Arthur turned back to his friend, his hand fluttering toward Merlin’s stomach, but stopping just shy of the wound. Merlin understood. Arthur couldn’t bear to have his hands covered in Merlin’s blood.

“Oh God, Merlin, you _imbecile_ , you shouldn’t have come out, you’re so stupid, how could you, _how could you_ …” He babbled, choking on his terror. He had one hand balled in a fist in Merlin’s shirt—near his collarbone, not close to the wound—and Merlin coughed up blood, felt it trickle down his chin. Dimly he thought to himself that he was glad Arthur’s face would be the last he saw.

“Arthur, shh,” he muttered weakly, and Arthur was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Don’t, it’s okay,” Merlin whispered, and he reached up to clutch Arthur’s sleeve. Arthur’s other hand landed on Merlin’s thigh, squeezing with a vice grip.

Arthur spluttered, “No, no, please no,” and Merlin couldn’t keep his eyes open for much longer. He didn’t want to see Arthur’s despair. Even if he could go back to fifteen minutes ago to do it all over, he wouldn't change a thing. Those men would've hurt Arthur, and they needed to be stopped. Arthur still had so much to do in this world.

His voice thick with grief, Arthur stammered, “You can’t leave me now.” A pained smile flitted across his face for a moment, and Merlin could tell how much it was costing him, but Arthur was trying his damnedest anyway.

He finished the thought, his voice catching. “You can’t leave now, I just learned how to make trousers.”

Merlin felt his own answering smile, and it was heartfelt, the pain was receding now and he fixed his remaining attention on Arthur as he faded; he dug his fingers into the fabric of Arthur’s tunic.

“I bet they’re great, Arthur. I bet they’re really, really…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

xXxXx

 

(Arthur cupped Merlin’s cheek, sobbing and repeating Merlin’s name over and over and over, but he was already gone.

Merlin had two rings on his fingers. The one Arthur examined now, the one he’d never asked about, read, “PENCES  POVR  MOYE  DV” – _think of me, God willing_. It had a heart at the end of the inscription, with two crossed arrows through it. It was how Arthur felt: like his heart had been pierced. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe_.

Arthur wriggled the ring off of Merlin’s finger and slipped it onto his own.

He never took it off, not for the rest of his life.)

 

 

* * *

  

 

 _Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain_  
_Full charactered with lasting memory,_  
_Which shall above that idle rank remain,_  
_Beyond all date, even to eternity._

 _-Sonnet CXXII  
_ _William Shakespeare, 1564-1616_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Candlemas Night - A Christian holiday, commemorating when Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the temple for purification. It falls on February 2. Twelfth Night did go up on Candlemas Night. 
> 
> *The King's Men - Shakespeare's troupe
> 
> *Stew - A brothel
> 
> *Potboy - A young man employed to clear away in a bar. Like a modern-day busboy. 
> 
> *Orange girls - There were women who walked through theatre audiences and sold oranges, sort of like how at American baseball games, there are people walking through the crowd selling hotdogs. 
> 
> *Tankard - Basically a beer stein
> 
> *Tundish - While typically used in metal-pouring, a tundish was also a funnel used in brewing.
> 
> *Player - Actor  
>  
> 
> **Notes about this time period:**
> 
>  
> 
> -It really was a challenge for men to play women who were playing men, which is something Shakespeare wrote into several plays. (I've had to do it- play a man who was playing a woman. It ain't a walk in the park.) Moreover, there truly was a fascination for the men who played women. It was pretty much a fetish. (Still is, I suppose, but it was a more... commonplace thing?)
> 
> -Shows were taken on a day-by-day basis. If opening night wasn't received well, the show would close. So Twelfth Night doing well meant that the performances would continue. 
> 
> -It may seem absurd for a sword fight to erupt so suddenly like this, but it was not at all uncommon. Men wore their swords everyday, knowing something like this could happen. 
> 
> -In a similar vein, "death rings" were an actual thing. They were called poisy or poesy rings. Poesy rings were gold, and they were one of two things: they were about love (with inscriptions such as "I am my beloved and my beloved is mine"), or they were about death. The ones about death were inscribed with sayings like, "Accept my good will", "I have nothing more to give but my heart", etc. ([X](http://artofmourning.com/2014/10/26/a-mourning-tour-posie-rings/)) Prior to about 1680, Poesy rings were often inscribed in Latin or Norman French, like Merlin's was. Merlin's ring was an actual ring that was found in the remnants of the Rose Theater, one of the four theaters in London from that time period (the other two, besides the Rose and the Globe were the Hope and the Swan). [The ring can be seen at the Museum of London.](http://collections.museumoflondon.org.uk/online/object/119520.html)


End file.
